KIWI ODYSSEY
by
Ivan J. Schell

Himalian Thar on Mount Hutt, New Zealand	Fallow Deer, High Peak Estates, New Zealand

The Kiwi Odyssey started in February 2001. Bob Penfold and his partner, John Berry, of Hunt New Zealand, generously donated a South Island hunt to the SCI Fundraiser for auction. This was the first experience that OVC-SCI had with auctioning New Zealand hunts, and I was concerned that few of our members would bid on the trip.

On the other hand, New Zealand had been high on Ann and my wish list for several years, so it was no tough sell for us to bid on the hunt. Fortunately (for me), few others in our group were there looking to the South Pacific for their next hunt. After a few bids our trip was sealed. Ann went to work with a Philadelphia travel service (New Zealand Travel) (See Sidebar) and I began an e-mail discourse with John Berry to complete my research on hunting the South Pacific.

PREPARATIONS

What rifle should I take? We wanted to tour both the North and South Islands. Carrying a gun throughout both islands would be physically burdensome and would create a ream of police red tape from city to city. The answer: John's Remington 700 in 7 mag, Leupold, 3x9, complete with trigger job and stoked with 154 grain Norma ammunition. Like any other hunter I was reticent to use anyone else's gun and ammunition. Unlike some other hunters I had no reason to be concerned. This weapon system was accurate, nimble, and immensely capable.

What clothing does a hunter need in New Zealand? John warned - - bring the same clothes that you would take to Alaska. After two trips to Alaska, I knew that meant expedition-weight long underwear and heavy-duty rainwear. That advice turned out to be right on. The weather changed about every four hours: rain, wind, sun, more rain, 70 mph wind, cold - you get the picture!

Hunting licenses? Don't need them! New Zealand has no indigenous mammals; this means that Kiwis can hunt year around and limits do not apply. It's sort of like discovering Kentucky with Daniel Boone in 1769. The practical limits for all hunters of course include access to property and timing the rut (or "Roar" for red deer). The hunt for red stag extended through April when the rut for fallow deer begins. Accordingly, I timed my hunt through the last week of April and first week of May. The timing turned out to be perfect.
John explained that we could hunt public land, and would do so for thar. Big red stags and fallow deer, however, are to be found on private land, where hunting pressure is controlled. I opted to hunt the High Peak Estates for which Hunt New Zealand has exclusive hunting access. This turned out to be most fortuitous as can be seen from the accompanying photos.

LIFT OFF

On April 25th, the planning ended and the adventure began. We lifted off for a trip to the land of the hobbits. Before we knew what happened we had lost a day crossing the international date line and the equator. After 22 hours of travel (Louisville, Cincinnati, Los Angeles, Auckland, Christchurch); life seemed to be reflected in a mirror. The season suddenly was fall rather than spring. People were driving on the left instead of the right; they walked on the left and not the right; even the water faucets were reversed (cold on the right). At least the weather stayed in a civil range of 40°-°- 65° F- - - I mean 5°-°- 18° Celsius!

As soon as we hit the Auckland airport I ducked into a magazine shop to see what gun magazines were published locally. To my delight, I discovered four different titles all devoted to hunting. Subsequent travel time became learning time.

Soon I was immersed in information about calibers, loads, firearms, wet weather gear and Kiwi hunting tradition.

Finally we arrived at the George Hotel in Christchurch and began our recovery from the trip. We had arranged for a 36- - hour rest stop to ease into South Island experience. The hotel's dining room offered the finest cuisine and wine in town, facilitating a rapid trip recovery and climatization. A good night's sleep, walk around town followed by a massage contributed to our final preparation to hunt.

About 4:00 p.m. Sunday evening (or was that Saturday) Mark Jones, a guide with Hunt New Zealand, fetched us in his Land Rover and we headed to Mount Hutt Station ("The Homestead"). This sheep ranch, or "station" as they are locally known, had a rich history of development by pioneer owners. Several years ago, after the decendant of the original owner was "offed" by his son, the property was sold to the present investor owners who turned the facility into a hotel/motel/guest house.

Fears of the unknown were the first items to be dispelled. Would the room be nice enough for my bride? Would the food be better than plain? Would Ann have enough to keep her occupied while I was in the field? Fortunately, we were able to answer all of these questions in the affirmative.

The room was decorated in 1890 Victorian style and the TV played 1960's US reruns, but the comfort level was good. Additionally, the "station" offered a reading room, sauna, laundry, game room and porch overlooking the a great duck pond.

Dinner each evening was preceded by proper cocktails. The chef was an ex-army officer's mess sergeant who had also cooked for Queen Elizabeth on her trips to this "other" colony. Some New Zealand wines are extraordinary and in particular some of their pinot noir.

The preliminaries being properly disposed of, we slept the first night to the accompaniment of raindrops on the bathroom skylight.

RED STAG ROAR

A hearty breakfast of eggs and sausage prepared me for the first day's hunt in the rain. Decked out in my Alaskan raincoat, I set out with Mark to check the zero on my loaner 7 mag. Mark put chains on the back tires of the "Rover" and we headed into the 6,000-acre backcountry hunting area looking for red stag. As luck would have it we first encountered Suffolk rams (also on my list), after about an hour's effort. Two of the rams decided to sort out some breeding rites and squared off about 20 yards apart. Bashing their brains together, the fellows created a chilling, cracking sound and sprayed water everywhere. Many eyes were watching the proceedings including a couple watching us. The rams moved off quickly and the hunt was on.

A half-mile later we were able to approach them from the bottom of a steep incline. Mark identified the shooter for me as I found a tree limb to steady my rifle. At the shot the rams were off again - -- except for one - which gave it up after about 10 climbing steps. The mature ram sported a curl and three quarters on both sides.

Lunchtime found us in the bosom of the hill country making our way to a secluded wood and stone cabin built by the High Peak owners for summer picnics. We appreciated the dry wood stacked under the overhang at the back of the cabin. John Berry was inside building a fire and starting tea for his Argentine hunter Peppy - age 72. Peppy "liked to shoot" and had already killed nice elk and red stag in the preceding days. Even though his English left a lot to be desired, he explained that a couple of his children reside in the U.S. so he gets there frequently.

After washing down our sandwiches with hot tea, Mark and I were back on the trail searching for a shootable red stag. We hunted safari style, driving the jeep trails on ridge tops and glassing at regular intervals. We searched hard but saw only a few red deer. Mark surmised that the deer were hiding out on the leeward side of the foothills mountains away from the wind and drizzle.

We parked the vehicle and began investigating mountainsides protected from the wind. Eventually our effort bore fruit as Mark spotted a large 15-point stag about 350 yards down and away from our position. I considered the shot through the 45 mph wind and suggested we try to find another approach to get closer. We backed out of our position and headed around the mountain to an access point ¼ mile west. On hands and knees we approached the area we thought contained the stag. Nothing! We moved on to the next ridge and peeked over. Our target had been further than we expected. Again on hands and knees, I moved to a point overlooking the stag's position about 70 yards above him. Carefully I chambered a round. The metallic click caught the stag's attention and I froze. For a long 5 minutes I didn't move. Finally the stag began to look in another direction and I knew it was now or never. A comfortable sitting position provided all the stability I needed to punch the stag's ticket for America. I edged the rifle up until the cross hairs reached the back of his front leg. Taking a double lung shot, the stag rolled feet over antlers until being trapped by several stones 125 yards away. Mark headed back to the vehicle as I picked my way across ledges and side hilled down ridges to reach the monarch. Can you say fabulous? Beautiful sweeping beams sprouting 15 points and only one at the top was slightly damaged.

Mark made the long hike from the jeep road to take photos and field dress my trophy. By the time we hiked out with meat and trophy my first New Zealand hunting day was becoming night. Neither of us had brought our "torch," so we carefully picked our way down off the hill. A celebratory cup of (what else) tea at the vehicle, and we were headed back to the skinning shed.

John and Peppy greeted us with congratulations and envy as Peppy announced that my stag was bigger than his. (Well, I did work harder!) Mark skinned the meat and hung it in the locker for a day's aging before transporting it to needy families. Back at The Homestead the congratulations were continued with Möet Chandon.

WHITE PEAKS - BLACK THAR

The second day of hunting would be vastly different from the first. The morning sky broke clear and windless. The conditions were perfect for my thar hunt. Because the weather could be so dicey, we quickly arranged to meet my helicopter pilot and alpine guide Don for an assault on the upper reaches of the Mount Hutt range.

After several minutes of instruction on the finer points of mounting and dismounting the Hughes whirlybird, we were headed into the snow-covered peaks. We searched for tracks as the pilot dipped, dived, banked, climbed and swooped. Eventually we found tracks and thar. By this time my internal temperature was skyrocketing and I stripped my top down to my long underwear. Either I was getting out of that bird or we'd all regret it.

The pilot found a frozen gravel and slate ridge about 20 feet wide and I crawled out dropping to my knees to avoid the blades. When I didn't get up my guide knew I wasn't exactly praying. I assured Don that I'd recover quickly and be ready to hunt. And we hunted. But thar blend into the black rocks on those mountaintops incredibly well. I could not see the bull thar Don was trying to point out 300 yards outup the mountain. I was clueless until the bull broke cover and headed down a canyon 150 feet almost directly below us. We ran (ever so carefully) on the top of the icy slate ridge attempting to head off the thar. As we reached a broad space covered with tufts of snow-covered grass, the bull outdistanced us. Then a little hunter's luck intervened. The thar decided to investigate his pursuers by climbing out of the ravine to the ridge top for a cautious peek over the edge. I peeked back through the 3x9 Leupold and squeezed off a shot through the brush on the ridge's edge and through the bull's shoulders. He was done and so was I. I sat down exhausted. The Thar dropped back into the canyon. Fortunately, he damaged neither his fabulous coat nor his horns.

Don got on his radio and called in the air cavalry to retrieve the thar. Fifteen minutes later the chopper appeared above the ridge with thar suspended from a rope below.

The ride back was beautiful and straight (no dips, dives, etc.) and I made it back without any health issues.

PADDLES IN THE BRUSH

By mid afternoon my gastrointestinal trauma was settled enough to attempt lunch before an evening glassing session for fallow deer. Mark predicted that the fallow- - just starting the rut - - would constitute our greatest challenge. Experience would prove him right. About 10 minutes before total darkness, we spotted an exceptional buck at least 30 minutes away by foot express. We decided to back off and try again in the morning.

Day three brought with it a change in hunting technique from New Zealand safari to Kentucky stand type hunting. At daybreak we returned to the area where we spotted the buck on the preceding night and glassed -- and glassed -- and glassed. Finally at 9:30 Mark spotted the buck leaving what was apparently a bedding area and disappearing into the woods. Range: 1,000 yards,. Frustration: high. All day long we glassed, waiting for big buck to return. At 4:00 we spotted him at about one mile away heading back in the general direction of the bedding area. Maybe this stand hunting would work after all. By 5:00 our buck was back in the vicinity of his bedding area. We decided to try a long stalk and dropped down the mountain behind a ridge parallel to that containing the buck's bedding area.

It was uphill all the way but after an hour of work we peered over the ridge top parallel to the buck's position about 250 yards away. The wooded bedding area obscured the buck. Still, Mark spotted the buck's rump through a breaking in the trees. I nestled the rifle over Mark's pack, and waiting until my breathing calmed down. The buck stepped clear of a doe and its front end became visible through the trees. At the sound of my shot, the buck jumped straight up as if hit and disappeared. I was convinced that we'd find a very dead deer on that ridge. Unfortunately as dusk closed in we discovered no body, no blood, and no hair. Apparently the bullet grazed the deer's underside and provided him an instant education. I was distressed. All that work culminating in a miss. I couldn't accommodate the idea. Eventually I gave in to the notion that tomorrow would bring another day and more opportunities.

Day four dawned with a return to safari style hunting. The sky was partly cloudy, but wind from the west coast ripped the ridge tops at 120 km per hour! We could barely move, as we took up a position just below a ridge top glassing for non-existent deer. The wind pounded us so savagely we each thought separately we could feel the hill move! That of course was preposterous on its face, so neither of us mentioned it until we sought refuge in the cabin for lunch. The hut warmed quickly from our fire and notwithstanding the wind, the smoke managed to escape without asphyxiating us.

Lunch vanquished, we re-entered the natural wind tunnel. Once back on top of the ridge, we ran into Ted from Saginaw (guided by another of John's soldiers). Ted wanted to get the benefit of our scouting, but having been warned about the competition among guides, I didn't reveal very much. Mark was becoming convinced that the deer had made their way to lower elevations and were holding in the canyon bottoms ("guts") to avoid the wind. He was right again. At the lower levels we found several herds bedded in the brush on the lee side of the mountains. The glassing began at distances of at least ½ mile. After a couple of hours we had between us examined every visible buck. No shooters showed up.

As daylight began to fade, we decided to move. At the next gut beyond the occupied canyon, we made our way up a grown over jeep trail. Several times we stopped to glass, or walk over the ridge top for another long distant view of the bedded fallow. Several soon made us and the exit began. First those close by, then those across the gut disappeared quickly into the cedars. Hope began to fade with the light. We remounted the Land Rover and crawled up the trail. A couple of bucks spooked off to our right and promptly escaped. Then a couple of amber paddles a mere 50 yards away, protruding above the bush, caught our eye. Mark did his best impression of Marcel Marceau, in screaming silence, wildly gesturing toward the bedded buck. I examined the paddles in my binoculars and caught Mark's excitement. Because the fierce wind masked our sound and scent, the buck had not discovered us. Prone on the trail, I waited for the buck's inevitable restless stretch to examine his surroundings. Within three seconds the cross hairs bisected his light spotted pelage coat and a Norma slug double lunged another trophy.

REFLECTION

We worked quickly to document our success on film and headed to the skinning shed with the night's entree: Medium rare venison with a Möet Chandon chaser. Mark joined us at the lodge for a spirited recounting of all the hunt's highlights. Sharing the excitement of the preceding days, of course, enriched this hunt like all great hunts. We speculated about future hunts as well.
My advice: When the New Zealand hunt comes up for auction at the next OVC-SCI fundraiser - put your hand in the air!

Ivan Schell and his trophy 15 point Red Stag,
High Peak Estates, New Zealand

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